Ghost Stories
by Cris
Summary: A mysterious stranger in the O'Connell household may turn out to be a blessing...or destruction.
1. An Argument

**Ghost Stores**

Disclaimer: I own nothing from the original movies. I am not making any money, and I have nothing for you to take if you sue me (starving college student!) So...yeah, I think that's it!

The sky was leaden and gray when Alexander Carnahan O'Connell woke from his restless sleep and looked out the window. He'd been dreaming about those strange noises again… Almost at the same moment, a burst of heavy rain slammed into the glass panes of his window, turning his back yard into a momentary smudge of watercolor green. Ordinarily this would have dismayed him to no end. He wasn't allowed to play in the gardens when it rained, due to an entirely English—or so said his father—dislike of both wet and cold. But his mother prevailed in this, as she prevailed in most things, through the absolute adoration in which his father held her. At nearly ten years old, Alex was beginning to understand these things.

Ordinarily rain meant a trip with his mother to her career at the British Museum or an afternoon playing chess and eating oft-forbidden chocolate with his father. But for several months now, ever since the twins were born, Alex's mother had been uneasy about taking them out in the rain and Alex's father had been uneasy about her going anywhere without him. So the past months, wintry and cold, and been spent largely inside the family home; and while Alex acknowledged that fact that his ancestral home was quite large and interesting, he found this all exceedingly boring. 

Today, however, Alex stripped off the bedclothes and stood at the window, peering on tiptoe out at the rain. He was actually happy that it was raining today, and he smiled at the showers outside. He had big plans. 

The little boy cut a picture rather more disheveled than his mother liked as he sat on the floor, scrabbling for his shoes and socks. He changed quickly into his blue trews and white short-sleeved shirt. He took his blue jacket off its hook in the wardrobe, but purposely left his row of ties alone. After a moment of thought, he took his pith helmet down from the shelf and pulled it over his feathery blond hair. Even when they went adventuring, his father never wore a hat like this. But it was exactly like his uncle's pith helmet, and ever since receiving it for his last birthday he couldn't think of starting on any adventure without it. 

Alex heard his mother calling as he exited his room, a small rucksack slung over one shoulder. He rattled down the curving, carpeted staircase from his second-floor bedroom to the ground floor dining room below. 

Evelyn Carnahan O'Connell was just dishing up her son's breakfast from the covered dishes on the sideboard as he blew down the last steps, skipping the two bottom stairs and hurtling into the dark cherrywood dining room. 

"Easy, Alex," Rick O'Connell said, ruffling his son's hair from under the pith helmet. "Going on safari today?"

"I say, my boy," Jonathan said from the other side of the table, "What's a five-letter word for corpse that ends in 'y'?" He scribbled something on his newspaper with a bit of pencil. 

"It's mummy, Uncle John," the boy said. He endured the absent-minded kiss his mother placed on his head as she removed his helmet and set his porridge and his egg before him. "No hats at the table, Alex, you know that."

"Yes, mum," he said quickly before answering his father. Alex unfolded his napkin, placing it on his lap carefully as he spoke. For some reason, his mother did not like it so very much when he tried to tuck the napkin into his shirtfront. "Not safari, dad. I'm going ghost hunting!"

Jonathan choked on his coffee. "Ghosts?" he said, his eyes growing wide. "Evie…"

"Oh, calm down Jonathan!" she said, rolling her eyes. "He can go hunting ghosts or tigers or even mice for all of me, just as long as he doesn't go raising any mummies from the dead."

"Yes," Rick said, hiding behind Jonathan's newspaper. "That's his mother's forte." 

"And apparently his father's forte is laughing in the face of any attempt at anthropological research." Evelyn raised both her eyebrows and her chin at her husband, hazel eyes glinting in her best English fashion. 

"Oh, I'm all for research," Rick countered. "I just don't call it research when there's a bunch of walking, talking corpses stumbling after me. Besides, both times we've been chased by dead things I was the voice of reason. Just remember that."

Alex hid his face, trying not to laugh.

"Be careful of what you find, though, Alex. Some of those relics tucked back in the rooms are very breakable." Evelyn drifted over to where the twins' pram sat against the wall.

"I'm not interested in your knickknacks, mum," he protested. "I told you; I'm looking for ghosts."

"Why do you think there're ghosts in the house?" Rick asked his son.

"I've heard them," Alex said, his blue eyes glimmering with the light that so often lit Evelyn's. It was the spark of mystery…and adventure.

"Sweetheart, it's a big old house and bound to make noises. You know that." Evelyn lifted one of the twins out of the pram, patting his back gently as they traveled over to the table. Rick took him deftly, and the infant cooed happily at his father. 

"It's not the house," Alex insisted fervently. Evelyn felt that voice more than she heard it, felt the emotion behind it as he strove to be taken seriously. "I've heard her laughing at me."

"Her?" Rick was startled into asking.

"Yes, and Uncle John has too!"

Rick raised an eyebrow at his brother-in-law. "And how would you know this?" he asked, still addressing his son. Jonathan shrugged and grinned uneasily, in his self-conscious way.

"She was keeping me awake last week," Alex said, playing with his breakfast and missing the exchange between the two men. "He came in to see why my light was still on."

"Alex, your Uncle John hears a lot of things that aren't really there, especially after Happy Hour."

Jonathan stuttered for a moment, but there really was nothing he could say to that and he had heard similar comments for so long that he had forgotten they were supposed to bother him. 

"But I really heard her!" Alex insisted. "She pushes books and things off the table, and then she laughs."

"Alex!" Rick's voice was sharp, and Alex flinched. "You're too old to be blaming your own clumsiness on _ghosts._" He tendered his son with a stern look. "Go playing through the house if you wish, but _do not_ go blaming things on imaginary scapegoats. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir." 

The voice was hurt and slightly sullen. At those words Rick looked up, and it was his own somewhat-sleepy surprise in his eyes as he realized his words had caused the hurt in his little boy's voice. Alex didn't see this as, head down, he pushed away from the table and slipped from the room, his steps heavier than they had been when he entered. 

Evelyn, holding the second twin, put a hand on Rick's shoulder. "He doesn't make up stories, Rick," she said. 

"I know that."

"Then why did you have to say that? Wind can push things over just as easily as a little boy can." She let her eyes flick to her brother. "Or even Jonathan. He doesn't lie to us, and I don't see him starting now."

"Come on, Evelyn!" Rick said, standing up and shaking her hand from his shoulder. "Ghosts?"

Evelyn was not fazed. "We've seen walking corpses. What makes you so sure walking souls don't exist?"

"After ten years in this house I think we would have seen them by now."

"Do you really think so?" Evelyn asked. "It took three thousand to raise Imhotep."

Rick shuddered. "Don't even say that name, Evie. I don't want to hear it."

Jonathan chuckled at that, raising his coffee cup. "And I always thought you were the skeptic, Evie." 

"Why don't you go find a girl, Jonathan?" Rick suggested. 

"Mm…no. Actually I think I'm going to go find a boy."

There was a moment of silence after this statement, and Rick and Evelyn exchanged a Look before returning their eyes to Jonathan. 

"Come off it!" the Englishman said. "I'm going to go talk to my nephew!"

"Just try not to encourage him too much in this, Jonathan," Rick said. "Walking, talking mummies in Egypt is one thing, but walking, talking ghosts in my house is another."

"And what if he does find one?" Evelyn asked, her mouth forming into the smirk that Rick both loved and hated. She smoothed down the curly hair of the twin in her arms. "What then?"

*****

A figure no more than a shadow approached Alex as he sat in his father's big chair before the fireplace. It paused, watching him as he scowled into his battered, first edition copy of _Peter Pan_. He looked very small in the oversized leather armchair, his feet stuck out in front of him, as his knees were nowhere near reaching the edge of the seat. He kicked his shoes together idly, a scowl painting his fair cheeks. Angrily he brushed a frustrated tear away from his eye with a hand creased from holding the large book steady for so long.

The shadow moved across the doorway, and a book on the edge of the hall table fell to the floor. Blue eyes big in a suddenly pale face, Alex twitched and looked all around him. Silence reigned for quite a long time. Alex strained his ears, but he could hear nothing save the rain beating against the leaded glass windows.

There was a sudden scrabbling sound, as if someone were scrambling for something on the floor, and what seemed to be a voice to Alex's young ears. But in the tall, heavily-furnished hallway sounds were often strange and mutated. Alex's breath hissed on the intake, the sound both unmistakable as fear and completely involuntary. His palms were sweating so much that the big book slipped from his grasp and crashed against his knees.

Alex jumped what felt like a mile out of his chair, an exclamation of both pain and fright escaping his throat. He felt his heart jump into his throat, and the back of his neck prickled in that awful way which meant he was being watched.

Scrambling out of the chair, unable to sit still for a moment longer, Alex made a swift, wide arc around the doorway. "My _ghost_," he whispered. He crept along the wall, inching toward the door. Another scuffling sound made him flinch, but he swallowed the constriction in his throat and crept forward. 

Alex didn't know whether he should be afraid or thrilled as he inched toward the door. He was finally going to see his ghost! Ghosts didn't scare him nearly as much as mummies. But then, he figured, he hadn't been kidnapped and hauled across the whole of Egypt by any ghosts. To finally meet the spirit of someone who had lived long before! Alex didn't quite know what was the first question he wanted to ask this visitor from the past. Slowly, his small hands shaking as they clutched the doorway, he slid around the corner…

And found himself face to face with his perceived ghost—his Uncle Jonathan!

They both screamed in unison, and vaulted back. Jonathan, unfortunately, slipped on the well-waxed floor of the hallway and fell backwards, making a hollow _thud!_ as he landed on the sleek flooring.

"Uncle John?" Alex asked, his eyebrows rising in childish incredulity. 

"Alex! You nearly scared the life out of me, child," the man said, climbing rather shakily to his feet. 

"I thought you were my ghost."

"Under the circumstances I may well turn into one," replied the poor man, whose heart was just beginning to slow down. He took a deep breath and then took Alex by the shoulder, leading him back into the library. He watched as his nephew crawled back into Rick's chair before he sat down himself. 

"Look, old chum," he said, "I don't want you to feel badly about what your father said to you back there."

"I don't," Alex said, but the voice was sullen, and he refused to meet his uncle's eyes. 

"Come off it," Jonathan said. "I know you do, and you've every right to be upset. But your father just wants to protect you—"

This really was too much for Alex, and he wasted no time in saying so. "He doesn't want to protect me!" he informed his uncle. "There's nothing to protect me from. He just doesn't want me to be a kid anymore. He wants me to be all grown up, like he is." Alex let out a puff of angry air. "Now that he has the twins, he doesn't need _me_ to be a kid anymore. Now I'm just supposed to grow up." He cast a longing glance at the open page of his book, where an engraving of Peter Pan, dressed in rags, hands on hips, laughed defiantly at the world of adults which he scorned. 

"Alex, Alex," Jonathan said, shaking his head. "Your father never had much of a childhood, and it's really time you knew that. He dearly wants you to be a boy and do boyish things." Here he put a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "But he really doesn't want you doing anything that's dangerous. Your mother learned the hard way that searching for mummies isn't always a good thing. Our father learned the same. But your father wants to save you from what appears to be the Carnahan family curse."

"Mummies?"

Jonathan laughed, and ruffled the boy's hair. "More like anything that walks and talks and isn't supposed to."

"But my ghost is real!" Alex insisted. "Searching for her doesn't make her any more real, and ignoring her doesn't make her go away."

"Convince your father of that," Jonathan said, "and you'll have done something that your mother couldn't even do."

Alex snorted his opinion of that. "There's nothing that mum can't do!"

"Atta boy," Uncle John said. "Now. No hard feelings toward your dad?"

Alex sniffed. "I guess not."

"For the moment, I suppose that will have to do." Jonathan rose. "You come tell me if you find anything on this hunt of yours, what?"

At that, Alex beamed his usual cheerful smile and the twinkle returned to his bright eyes. "You bet, Uncle John!" And he went back to his book, feeling happier than he had since breakfast.


	2. A New Friend

"Boy."

Alex had been expecting something scary—like his mummy memories—or something not quite of this world. But the vision sitting on the ground before him looked entirely human and entirely alive. 

She cocked her head to the side, examining him with deep green eyes. "Why were you crying?"

"I was crying because my father doesn't believe me," Alex said, his eyes wide as he sat in his chair and stared at her. "And anyway, I wasn't crying."

Her angular face broke out in a merry smile. "Of course not," she agreed. "But what is this your father doesn't believe you about?"

"You, I think," Alex sighed, his mood glum again. "Are you the one who's been shoving things about and then laughing about it?"

The happy giggle gave the truth to his words. "Oh, yes," she said. "I get so bored sometimes, and it's not easy to hide from you all."

"This is a big house," Alex countered, surprised. "I should think it would be."

"No, no," she said. "It's not easy to stay away from you because I don't _want_ to." She stood up and stretched. Her hands rose high in the air…and so did her feet. She hovered for a moment, a few inches off the floor.

"Coo!" said Alex. "Can you teach me how to do that?"

"I don't think so," she said, true regret in her voice. "I wasn't always able to do it. She paused, and a thoughtful frown crossed her face. "I don't think."

Alex's face creased. "How long have you been here?"

"A long time," she said, and she turned a lazy somersault in the air.

"Longer than me?"

"Oh, much longer!" she said brightly.

"How many years?"

She shrugged. "I dunno." 

"Were you here when my mum and Uncle John were kids?" he asked, excited at this prospect. Slowly, afraid she would disappear if he took his eyes off her for too long, he closed his heavy book and fumbled it to the desk beside him.

She thought for a long moment, but then she shook her head. "I don't think so. But I was asleep for a very long time."

"Oh." Alex tried to hide his disappointment. "But you really are a ghost, right?"

"What's a ghost?"

Alex hid his head in his hands.

*****

After another hour or so of questioning they managed to learn a little more about who this strange person was and how she had come to be in the Carnahan household. Her memory, to Alex's disappointment, was terribly fractured and incomplete. She knew nothing of her life before her "sleep," as she called it, nor did she remember exactly when or where she had woken. All she knew was that she had not left the grounds of Ranton Hill since she woke.

"I remember you, though," she said proudly. "I remember when you were smaller than those two new little ones."

"And you've never left the grounds, ever?"

She shook her head. "Never. But I've been pretty much everywhere on them."

"Really?" Alex looked excited. "Have you been though every room in the house."

She nodded.

"Every _single_ room?"

"Well…" the ghost paused. "No. I can't get into the locked rooms." 

An idea sparked in Alex's nimble mind. "Hey!" he said. "I know where the keys are!" A twinkle of adventure entered his sweet blue eyes as he cast a smile upon his new friend. Rain lashed against the windows. "You want to go see what's in there?"

An answering smile lit the ghost's angular face, and she nodded eagerly. Setting her feet on the floor, she turned toward the door. Alex reached out to grab her hand, presumably to lead her to the keys. But though she looked every bit as substantial as he, Alex's hand passed right through hers.

A moment of silence stopped Alex. "You really _are_ a ghost," he whispered. Sorrow laced his new friend's eyes. She tried to move away from him, but Alex put his hand out again. "Wait!" he said. "We're still going to go see what's inside the locked rooms, aren't we?"

For a moment, it looked as if she was still going to back away. But the earnest blue eyes of the child stopped her, and she gave a tenuous smile. "Yes," she said softly.

"Well, then let's go!"

Alex scampered down the hallway and picked his father's ring of keys up off the peg where they sat near one of the many doors that led outside. His new friend followed closely as they scrambled up the first flight of stairs. 

This was the sleeping level, where all the bedrooms were. They paused for breath at the top, and Alex waited for his new friend to point the way toward the locked rooms. He had never heard of any locked rooms in the house, but he had never bothered to go searching around in the upper stories and back rooms. He had more fun outside, or at the British Museum, than he did inside his own house. But this new game smelled strongly of adventure—a ghost, locked rooms—and who knows? Alex knew well who his grandfather was, and he knew that not all of the Hamunaptra treasure and Tutankamen treasure had been sent on to the museum. So…maybe it was in one of the locked rooms! Alex's pulse beat with excitement.

But the ghost paused before the door of the twins' room, and her face was creased with curious lines. One of the babies gurgled. 

"You can go see them," Alex offered. 

They stepped into the darkened room, trying to be quiet and not wake the babies. The ghost peered over the edge of the crib. Alex couldn't quite see over the railing, but he reached a hand over the top, his elbow barely reaching, so he could point to the sleeping infants. "That's Howard," he said, pointing the near twin. "He's named after Grandfather. And that's James." He looked up at his friend.

She was looking at the twins with concentration. "When do they get their names?"

Alex shrugged. "When they're born, I guess. When did you get your name?"

"I don't have a name." Her eyes lost a little of their twinkle.

"You don't have a name?" Alex's voice was flat with little boy disbelief.

"Maybe I did a long time ago," she said, shrugging. "But what need have I of a name when no one speaks to me? I call myself 'me'."

"Well, I'm talking to you now," Alex said. "So you need a name again. Is it all right if I give you one?"

A bright smile lit her face, and she clapped her hands like a young child. "Please!" she said. "I would love a new name."

"All right then." Alex's chest swelled with importance. "I shall call you…Cassy. Would you like that?"

She considered it for a moment. "Yes," she said finally. "I believe I would."

"Then, Cassy, let's go find those locked rooms!"

The two, already fast friends, scampered off to find the next staircase up, into the higher levels of the old house.

It started getting creepy as soon as they climbed the staircase to the third floor of the old house, their steps creaking on the old boards. Alex shivered as the damp air of unused halls hit him. Though the hired help that came once a week kept the entire house clean enough, they didn't necessarily keep it warm and comfortable. These upper reaches of the manor, seldom used, felt cold and silent as a tomb. 

Cassy seemed not to notice as they turned down a long hallway. Alex flicked the light switch, but few of the ornate lamps along the ceiling actually lit. One burnt out as the rush of electricity hit it, in a sudden bright flash and shower of sparks. Alex felt his heart leap into his throat, and then he shook his hair out of his eyes. It was only his house, after all; it wasn't as if he were exploring some ancient pyramid or something. 

They traveled down the hallway, the carpet a dark wine red with burnished gold strips down the side. Cassy's face was striped alternately with shadow and with light as they passed beneath the lighted ceiling fixtures. Alex shivered again and pulled his coat closer around his shoulders. Cassy seemed to be counting the doors, as if trying to remember which of the old doorways lining the halls was locked. 

She paused before a door about three quarters of the way down the hallway, her arching eyebrows pulled down in a frown. "It's here," she said, putting out a hand and trying the doorknob. 

"All right then." Alex noticed that his voice echoed strangely in the long, empty corridor, as if he did not belong in this cold, silent place. He also noticed that Cassy's did not.

Fumbling in his coat pocket, he pulled out his father's ring of keys. One by one, he fit each key to the lock and tried to turn it. Cassy watched excitedly, her tension mounting each time a key was rejected by the lock. Finally they were down to a single key.

Alex looked up at his new friend, the first spark of uncertainty lighting his eyes. "It looks too big," he said, eyeing the old-fashioned key. "I don't think it will work." Nonetheless, he fit the key to the lock. 

"Are there any other keyrings in the house?" Cassy asked, disappointment showing in her eyes. 

The big key wouldn't even enter the lock on the doorknob, and Alex dumped his father's ring of keys dejectedly at his feet. "No, mum's just got copies of dad's keys. And Uncle John…" Suddenly Alex smiled. It was his mother's smile, the smile that meant he had an idea. "Come on!" he said, snatching up the ring of keys and dashing back down the hallway. His steps echoed eerily in the corridor. 

"Where?" Cassy asked, floating alongside him as easily as strolling. 

"If anybody knows how to get in there, I bet Uncle John would!"

*****

Ardeth Bay surveyed his surroundings with a poker face that Jonathan would have envied, could he but see it. However, the mighty warrior had no idea that he looked either stern or stoic, and in fact, he cared little for his appearance as he gazed down from the top of the cliff. 

It was the same cliff from which, over a decade ago, he had watched a garrison of the French Foreign Legion cut to pieces by Tuareg bandits. That was his first encounter with the strange foreigner, Rick O'Connell. O'Connell was one of three Legionnaires who made it out of the desert alive. One had escaped through cowardice—the commander—riding away on a horse every bit as frightened as its rider. Another had escaped through deceit—the little, slimy man—only to return years later and die amid the ruins. The third had escaped only through his own determination to live—O'Connell. Even now Ardeth Bay didn't know why the desert hadn't killed him that day over ten years ago. The Sahara didn't give up its prisoners easily, and it took more than sheer need to impress the wandering Bedouin enough to cajole food from them.

Bay himself was not a Bedouin, nor was he a Tuareg raider. He belonged to a piece of society that most of the world thought extinct. He was a mystical Medjai, one of the purest descendants of Egyptian blood left in the whole of Africa. Even the Jews could no longer say their blood was pure—not pure like the Medjai. Though once slaves of the Double Kingdom, they now populated the world and mingled their blood with most of the people they met. 

Not the Medjai. They mixed only with outsiders with incredibly strong gifts of magic, and therefore their blood remained nearly pure. Even now, three thousand years since the height of the Egyptian empire, the Medjai still retained the regal bearing of Egyptian nobles, had the same rosy-dusky skin and the same aristocratic cheekbones that had long been considered a mark of good breeding among many cultures. 

Ardeth himself was considered a prime specimen. He was all a Medjai warrior should be, and he was also currently the youngest leader his clan had ever enjoyed. He was considered an elder although many of his clansmen were older than he, and his warriors were known as some of the bravest and most highly skilled in all the land. 

They were so highly praised that their clan had won a high honor. They were the ones set to guard the City of the Dead. There were Medjai throughout all Egypt, protecting the cursed resting places of pharaoh and slave alike, but guarding the City of the Dead was considered one of the highest honors—and most difficult tasks. Ardeth Bay thought, for a while, that his tribe would be taken off of such a high honor after their two failures to keep He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named from awakening. But the successful recovery of both incidents had cleared their name before it could even be tarnished, and they were safely back home, guarding the silent ruins once more. 

Hamunaptra certainly looked somewhat different than it had a year ago, Bay had to admit. When the group from the British Museum came through with the strange woman who knew too much they had cared little for the state of the ruins and their historical significance. In truth, Ardeth didn't care much for historical significance either, but he _did_ have a healthy respect for the dead, and watching how the workers had smashed carelessly through blocks of three-thousand-year-old stone had made him wince. Even now, looking at the mutilated city, gave Ardeth a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

Not that he would ever let it show, of course. The warrior, the Medjai warrior, showed absolutely nothing as he lay on the sun-baked rock, his back scorching through the layers of black linen he wore. A drop of sweat beaded up on his forehead and ran down his nose, but he ignored it. His horse, whom he sorely missed, was tethered at the bottom of the slope, a good three miles from where he now lay with a handful of his most trusted men. They held rifles in ready, flexible grips, and each one wore a wickedly curved scimitar at their waist. Ardeth knew that most also wore knives hidden in various places around their bodies, but he didn't inquire about those. He _did_ make sure each of his scouts was properly armed with gun and with sword, and left it at that. 

"How many?" he asked the young boy on his left. This one was just being trained up and needed the practice. 

"Ten or twelve," came the whispered reply. "Can't tell yet if they're armed."

"They will be, coming out into the desert," Ardeth growled back. "And don't whisper; the hissing attracts attention." 

The boy flushed and swallowed nervously. This was an old reminder, one that all the children of the Medjai heard daily, and he'd forgotten in his nervousness at being out with Ardeth on such a select outing. Ardeth knew this, but also knew that the boy had to learn in real situations or he would never be worth much more than a general camp guard.

"Listen!" The man to Ardeth's right had unusually keen hearing, and he now pointed softly to his ear and to the ant-like people swarming the City of the Dead below. "English, or Americans. Can't tell the accents, but they're talking English-talk." 

Ardeth nodded, making up his mind. He would give the order to attack now, when the diggers least expected it. Then they could blend into the desert again, hopefully stemming this recent expedition before they even entered the ruins of the city. He had learned his lesson giving Evelyn and Rick time to unearth the mummy the first time. He wouldn't be so lenient again. 

But just as he was raising his hand to signal to his followers, a mottled falcon landed on the rock beside him and gave a little chirrup. 

Ardeth took the message from the falcon's leg, suppressing the sadness that always overtook him when he glimpsed one of these birds. He had lost his own falcon, a trusted friend, just over a year ago and he missed the bird sorely. 

The tiny slip of paper changed all his plans. It was a message from the Council of Elders, and they had some important news for him. Knowing he would not be summoned without great need, Ardeth Bay signaled to his scouts that they were to return to the horses, and then to camp. The Council waited for no one.


	3. Discovery

*****

Jonathan was in his own room, the windows tightly shuttered and a fire roaring in the big old fireplace. He was seated at a morning table, using an expensive chess set to enact battle scenes for his own amusement.

"Take _that_!" he said, jabbing an alabaster bishop at an obsidian knight. The knight fell to the ivory-inlaid chessboard, and Jonathan pumped a triumphant fist in the air. "Gotcha!"

"Uncle John!" Alex exclaimed excitedly. The man looked up, saw Cassy, and promptly screamed. He got stuck attempting to launch himself as far away from her as possible and tripped over his cane-backed chair, landing in a heap on the rich Persian rug decorating his floor.

"Uncle John?" Alex turned to look at Cassy. She was looking herself over, as if searching for something odd. 

"Now why did that happen?" she asked. "I thought I looked normal."

Alex hid a smile behind his hand. "You do," he said. "Except you're floating again."

"Oh. Oops." She lowered herself six inches to the floor, then looked back at Jonathan with an embarrassed smile. "Sorry."

"Alex…" Jonathan tried, and then he swallowed, scooting backward and rising to his feet only when he had backed into the wall. "Alex, would you like to tell me just exactly why you've brought this…" here he swallowed, "…this…"

"Ghost?" Alex said helpfully.

"Why do you keep calling me that?" Cally demanded, placing her hands on her hips. "What's a ghost?"

Ignoring his uncle's stuttering, Alex answered her. "A ghost is the spirit of a person that died." He paused. "I think."

"Yes," Jonathan approved. "Very good, boy. Now…just what is one of them _doing in my room?_"

Alex giggled, hiding the laugh behind his hand. "This is Cassy, Uncle John. We came to ask you something."

Jonathan knew he was completely sober, and yet he found himself blinking his eyes and wondering if he would wake up from this dream any time soon. He studied Cassy with squinted eyes, and she stood still, seemingly unperturbed by the inspection. Jonathan frowned. She didn't _look_ like a ghost—well, except for the floating part—and, if he hadn't seen her drifting calmly in midair, he wouldn't have suspected she were anything but human. 

She looked odd, but it was the cast of her features rather than any otherworldly trait that made Jonathan think this. He couldn't tell from whence her blood had come, but he rather thought she was not English. She might have been of the darker race of Ireland, he considered, with some ancient Moorish blood thrown in, but for some reason he doubted it. Her face had a regal cast, like the stylized portraits of Cleopatra he had been raised around, with high cheekbones and eyes that hinted at an almond shape rather than the round English eye. Her skin was dusky, though pale from the years she had spent indoors…or was it the years she had spent without a corporeal form? Jonathan shivered at that thought, but hid it reasonably well from the woman he studied.

For woman she was—much older than Alex, at least, and he rather thought she had been upwards of twenty when she died. Her eyes were a bright, poison green that looked dully brown whenever she slid into the shadows. The green only enhanced the reddish hints in her dark hair, which was curly and longer than Evie's. 

"Well." Jonathan said, finding it difficult to form coherent sentences when faced with a true ghost. "I suppose, Alex, your ghost hunt was successful."

"No, Uncle John," the boy said. "Cassy found me."

"Cassy, is it?" Jonathan asked. 

"Yes, Uncle John. I told you that before." Alex rolled his eyes at Cassy, a conspiratorial gesture. 

"I believe you also said something about asking me a question?" Jonathan slid along the wall and dropped to his bed, sitting on the side of it without taking his eyes off the ghost. 

"Mm-hm." Alex scrambled up onto the wide bed and put his arms around his uncle's shoulders. "We found a locked door up on the third floor of the house," he said. "Dad doesn't have the key; we already looked. But _you've_ lived here for_ever_. I bet you know where the key is." He flashed a brilliant smile at his uncle, using a coaxing tone as he spoke. 

"Alex, I don't think it's such a good idea to go poking about in the back corners of this old house—" Jonathan began. 

"Uncle John!" Alex protested. "Mum already told me I could. Didn't you hear her at breakfast today? Please? I bet you know _everything_ that's up there, cuz you've been here longer than _anybody._" He punctuated this statement with a pouting lip and a pleading look in his eyes. 

Uncle and nephew faced off for a moment, but it wasn't long before Jonathan heaved a mighty sigh and put his head in his hands. "I'm going to regret this," he said, standing up and brushing his nephew off of his lap. 

"Yes!" Alex said, leaping off the bed. Cassy smiled widely, but didn't actually say anything. Jonathan picked up his ring of keys, seemingly identical to Rick's, and motioned for them to precede him from the room.

"Let's go get into more trouble," he said, sounding about as enthusiastic as if he were facing Imhotep again. 

*****

They traveled up and down the corridors until they found the hallway again, the lights still half on, and stopped before the locked door.

"Nobody's been in here in years," Jonathan said uneasily as he began fitting keys to the lock. "I don't even know what's in this room. Are you sure you really want to do this?" The last statement was made in a hopeful voice, as if he thought his nephew might have come to his senses. Turning to look at the boy, he caught Alex's stern glance, and sighed again. He continued attempting to open the door.

Downstairs, the cook had placed the covered dishes for lunch on the sideboard and was helping Evelyn heat bottles for the twins. 

"Alex!" Rick called, entering the dining room. But a full floor of rooms and thick, solid carpentry separated father and son, and Alex heard nothing as he concentrated on his uncle's fumbling hands, the keys, and the stubborn lock. 

"Let him alone," Evelyn said, lifting a cover off one of the dishes and letting the twin in her arms suck on the crumb of bread she offered him. "He's probably still upset with you." 

Rick grimaced. "Go ahead and say it," he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. 

Evelyn's light eyes flicked over to him. "Say what?" she asked.

"Tell me that he's right," Rick replied.

"I was going to say no such thing," Evelyn said, handing the twin his bottle now that he had thoroughly gummed the bread into a slimy mess.

"Sure. Where's Jonathan?"

Evelyn shrugged. "I'm not my brother's keeper, thank heavens." She set the infant with his brother in the pram. Both she and Rick noticed the silence, interrupted only by the sound of the cook washing dishes in the kitchen. 

"I can't remember the last time we had a meal alone," Rick said. "Jonathan usually doesn't pass up the chance at free food." 

"Your son, either," Evelyn said drolly. "But let him alone for now."

Rick sighed. "I will."

*****

"Nothing!" Jonathan was surprised that none of his keys had opened the door. He had keys to all the rooms in this place, or so he thought. Now _he_ was starting to wonder just what was behind that locked door, what was so important that it was locked with a key that nobody could find. Frowning, he tried to remember if his parents had mentioned anything about hidden keys or locked back rooms. But years separated him from his memories, and he couldn't be sure of anything. 

Well, almost anything. There was one thing he was sure of. Jonathan reached into a pocket and drew out a strange implement that Alex recognized instantly. It was a skeleton key. Smiling with satisfaction, Jonathan inserted the odd piece of metal into the lock and gave it a good twist. 

The metal of the lock resisted for a moment but after Jonathan jiggled the key it released its hold with a soft click, and the door swung open. 

The air inside smelled of mildew and rot, and the room was black as night. There were no windows, and Jonathan stuck his arm inside the half-open doorway, fumbling along the wall for a light switch. Finding it, he flicked the switch and a single unshaded bulb flickered into life. 

The three adventurers pushed the door all the way open, and all caught their breath at the sight before them. 

It was a treasure room.

The walls were covered in heavy, expensive cases of wood and glass, and inside those cases lay a king's ransom of gold. The cases cast strange shadows on the walls from the single bulb, and Jonathan shivered in the old damp that encased the room. The carpet, rich wine red, was covered with spots of browny-green mildew, and most of the cases were covered with a thick layer of dust. They could see no trace of mice—the house was built too solidly for that—though there were plenty of dusty spider webs in the corners. 

Display cases littered the floor of the spacious room, their glass lids covered in dust. It was difficult to see what lay inside them, but there was no mistaking what lined the walls of the room. Mummies.


	4. Revelations

"My god," Jonathan whispered, groping for a seat. He finally decided to perch on the edge of a display case that sat in the middle of the room, gaping with incredulity at what lay before him. 

Alex, too, was awestruck. "This is almost better than the museum!" he said in hushed, reverent tones. He walked slowly past the display cases, wiping the dust away to see what lay inside. "Uncle Jonathan, did you know this was here?"

"I don't even know what all this _is_," the poor man said, swallowing hard. The ornate sarcophagi lining the room made his knees feel weak again, and he was glad he'd sought a seat. But, as he rubbed his eyes in disbelief, he felt something chill pass over his skin.

With a frightened yelp, Jonathan leapt from the edge of the low display case and whirled around. There was Cassy, looking sheepish. "Sorry," she said. "I stumbled." In her surprise, she had stumbled right through him.

"This isn't from Hamunaptra," Jonathan said hesitantly, looking around. "Evie tells me everything, and she's never found anything this big. Alex, I think these are older finds. I think these are leftovers from what your grandfather found. I think this is treasure from the grave of Tutankamen." 

Alex was leaning over a display case he had wiped clean. "Look here, Uncle John!" he said, beckoning the man over. Inside the dusty case lay a purple satin pillow. On the pillow sat a beautiful ivory statue, next to a statue of perfect lapis. The blue stones glittered benignly in the harsh light. Alex grinned up at his uncle, who could barely do more than gape around the room. 

"But what about all the mummies?" he asked, turning around to glance helplessly at all the gold and brass and stone surrounding him. Only two sarcophagi were actually open, their occupants seeming to watch the intruders with horrible death grins and vacant eye sockets. One of them still had tatters of ancient hair hanging down its face, and this seemed to Jonathan particularly frightening. "Who would keep _mummies_ in his house?"

"Your dad," Alex said, covering his smile with one dusty hand. Turning to gaze into another display case, he started thinking out loud. "I wonder if mum knows this place is here," he said as he brushed the dust from its glass lid. "She told me to be careful with any relics I might find." 

"I don't think Evie knows this place is here," Jonathan said. "You weren't born when we fought our first mummy—you don't know how much she hated even the mention of the things for a while. She would have packed these all off, had she known." A shudder passed over him. "And so would I." 

"Oh, come on, Uncle John," Alex said, baiting him. "They're part of your past."

"Uh-huh," Jonathan said, not convinced. "And what are they doing here, instead of in the museum, hmm?" He folded his arms, refusing to allow himself to shiver again. "Tell me that, Genius." Jonathan moved away from his display case, and promptly bumped his head against the light bulb. 

Alex was about to reply childishly to this childish statement when he spotted something glittering in the light of the swaying bulb. It flashed against the corner of his eye as he strained to see into the dark corner where it lay, nearly hidden until the light caught it. 

"Uncle John…" he said softly. "How sure are you that this lot came from Grandfather?"

"Completely sure, Alex," the man said confidently. He pulled his pocket flask out of his jacket and took a swig, unmindful of the ghost and the little boy. "If there're any curses on this lot, it's not me 'n Evie that invoked them." He frowned suddenly as he saw Alex crawling into the corner. "Why?"

"Because," the boy said, straightening up with an obviously heavy armload of what looked like gold. "The book of Amun-Ra didn't come from King Tut's tomb. Or, at least, I'm pretty sure it didn't."

Sure enough, the armload of gold that Alex now held was fashioned into a book that sparkled as if it was the most innocuous artifact ever discovered. Alex put the book down on the top of a display case, the heavy gold not cracking the thick glass top. 

"I'm pretty sure the Book of Amun-Ra came from Hamunaptra," he said. "Along with this." And Alex scuttled back into the corner, returning with a book that looked even heavier, though in size and shape it was twin to the gold one. But this one wasn't made out of cheerful, glittering gold. It was fashioned of pure black obsidian. "The Book of the Dead."

Jonathan leapt back and, without realizing it, stumbled right through Cassy again. He shrieked, she shrieked, and both of them bolted toward opposite corners of the room. Alex, at hearing both unearthly screams—one from a ghost and one from Jonathan—not only shrieked, but dropped the black book as well. 

"Put that back, Alex, and let's get out of here," Jonathan said, motioning for his nephew to come to him. But Alex merely picked the book back up and gave both his fellow adventurers a funny look. 

"Why?" he said. "It's not like I'm stupid enough to _read_ from it." He looked around him at the various mummies, their blank eye sockets staring vaguely at him.

"Don't let your mother hear you say that," Jonathan said, also vaguely, beginning to calm down. 

But Cassy was not. "He is here," she whispered, cowering against the wall. "He is here, he is here, that is his book, he is here!" she said, her voice a ghostly, dry rustle, her eyes full of fear.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Alex asked. 

"I guess our old friend is bad enough to frighten even a ghost," Jonathan said shakily.

"But she shouldn't know _that_ much about him," Alex said, frowning at his friend. "Mum didn't want to talk about him much, and we _never_ mentioned the books…" He gave Cassy a funny glance, before setting the black book on another display case. 

"Alex, it's time to go," Jonathan said. "We're going to shut the door on this and go find your folks. This isn't something for a boy to be playing around with." He swallowed, and it was obvious he meant himself and not Alex. 

"Please, Alex, do as he says," Cassy begged. "He's here, he's in this room, he's still alive…" A frightened sound tore at her throat. 

"Hey, what's that?" Alex had been planning to listen, but something white sticking out of a display case caught his eye. "Hang on…"

"Now, Alex," Jonathan said. 

Alex shot a glance at his uncle before plucking the piece of paper out of its place and placing it in his pocket. Only then did he rejoin the other two at the entrance to this strange room. 

"Are you going to lock it up again?" he asked as Jonathan ushered them into the hallway. Cassy was sitting against the far wall, her knees brought to her chest, her skin gone completely white. 

"Yes," Jonathan said with no hesitation. "And unless your dad says so, it's not opening ever again." 

"Oh, come on, Uncle John," Alex tried, but there was no arguing with his uncle as the key turned in the lock. Jonathan wheeled the boy around, facing toward the staircase, and looked back at the ghost. 

"Cassy?" he said. She looked up. 

"He's here," she whispered. "That's his book, his own book. He helped write it, and he was so angry…so very angry." 

"We need to talk to mum and dad," Alex said. "Will you come with us?" 

She looked skeptical. "Your dad doesn't like me," she said. "I got you in trouble before."

"Well, you could help us a lot if you could back up our story," Alex said. "Please? I promise, when he gets to know you, he'll like you a lot."

Before the ghost could respond, a sudden, heavy _thud_ ricocheted through the locked doorway, shaking the hall and rattling the metal lock. All three adventurers looked at each other for the merest fraction of a second before filling their lungs with air and proceeding to scream it out as they hurtled down the stairs.

*****

Rick O'Connell, fearless leader and Egyptian adventurer, had his arms around his wife's shoulders and his nose buried in her hair when an unearthly scream floated down the staircase to him. Three seconds later the entire house seemed to erupt with the elephantine poundings of a million running feet. Evelyn jumped, Rick nearly flew out of his skin…and the twins began to bawl.

"Jonathan…" Rick growled, exchanging a glance with Evelyn. Her hazel eyes looked about as shaken as he felt. The pounding feet grew louder, closer…and then Jonathan Carnahan, Alex O'Connell, and one very frightened ghost hurtled through the doorway.

The next few seconds were absolute chaos. Alex—very red—and Jonathan—very pale—started screaming at the same time. Rick thought he heard the word "mummy" more than once, but even after ten years in England he wasn't sure if Alex meant Imhotep or Evelyn. Evie was now trying to reason with Alex, her voice adding to the melee as the three of them gestured wildly, not a word of their mutterings actually getting through to the others. While Cassy was not shouting, she seemed to have forgotten she was insubstantial and kept trying to huddle close to Jonathan—presumably as the only adult in this room that she actually knew. This only served in knocking her straight _through_ Jonathan several times, which in turn made him leap away from her and emit a high-pitched squeal. The cries of the infant twins in their pram rose above everything.

Rick witnessed this for about ten seconds before actually moving. First he pushed the pram into the room next door and shut the door firmly. Normally he could handle it when the babies cried, but not when he was trying to sort out the kind of verbal skirmish the Carnahans had entered into. Now only the faintest echoes of the twins could be heard through the solid woodwork, and Rick breathed a sigh of relief. Next, he picked up a tumbler full of ice water from the lunch table and very calmly threw it in his brother-in-law's face. 

Jonathan shrieked one last time as the water hit his skin before falling silent for good. He stared at Rick in surprise. That left only Alex and Evelyn shouting at each other. 

Rick stepped between them and lifted Evelyn's chin, forcing eye contact. She stopped talking as he lightly kissed her mouth, and full silence reigned for a moment as Alex ran out of air.

"All right," Rick said before his son could draw breath again. "Alex, I want you to sit down and take a deep breath before—who are you?" His attention had turned to Cassy, who was trying to hand Jonathan a napkin with which to wipe his dripping face. Every time he touched it, however, the pale cloth slipped through Cassy's fingers. After the fourth try, Evelyn, still staring at the ghost, bet to the floor and gave the napkin to her brother as the silence stretched across the table.

"Dad, I was right," Alex said, tugging on his father's arm to get his attention. Rick looked down into eager, tentative blue eyes that mirrored his own. For a moment, he wanted to hug his oldest son. "My ghost," Alex whispered.

Cassy emerged from where she was trying to hide behind Jonathan, and gave Rick and Evelyn a tentative smile. "Hello," she said softly.

"Hello," Evelyn said back. She was also smiling, her Egypt smile, the smile of discovery. 

"Your ghost…" Rick was watching the apparition as if he didn't quite believe what he was seeing.

"Yes, dad, but that's not important." Alex glanced over at his mother. "We found this…this room upstairs. It was locked, but we got in. Mum, there were mummies in there!" His eyes sparkled. "Mummies, and all sorts of things, Egyptian things." He took a deep breath before continuing. "And books, mum. Big books, heavy books not made out of paper."

"Alex…" she started, in a warning tone.

"No, mum, I'm not playing," he said, grabbing her arm. "It's true. They're here."

"It can't be," Evelyn said flatly. "It can't."

"But I _saw_ them," Alex insisted. "Uncle John did, too. The rest of the stuff was all in glass cases, real good care, but the books were thrown in a corner, like somebody'd left them in a hurry."

"Jonathan…" she said, still staring at her son, her voice begging for him to deny this wild accusation.

"It's there, old mum," he said softly. "Both of them—black book, gold book. I can't tell you how, or why. But they're there." 

"Hey."

Everyone looked at Rick, who was watching Cassy with a strange expression on his face. "What's up with the ghost?" he asked. 

She glared at him, but it was obvious that she had gone very pale. "You must not read from the book," she beseeched, talking to Evelyn and Jonathan. "He is waiting…"

"Who?" Rick demanded, rounding on her. "Who is waiting? For what?"

She merely shook her head. "You don't understand, you don't understand…" she said, trailing off. "He wants you to do it."

"You mean that Imhotep bloke?" Alex asked. "We got rid of him _last_ year."

"You didn't."


	5. Trapped

****

Disclaimer: Nothing that belongs to Universal belongs to me. Thanks for all the great comments, I think it's really sweet of you! Oh, yeah, and any inaccuracies are completely mine--I've only seen Mummy Returns a couple of times. Enjoy! :-)

Ardeth Bay strode into the pale tent of the Council of Elders a day after receiving the falcon summons. Inside was very still and swelteringly hot, but Bay said nothing. There were reasons for conducting Elder business behind canvas screens, and he knew all too well that some of those reasons would frighten even seasoned Medjai warriors. 

The eleven elders of the eleven tribes—Ardeth being the twelfth—were already seated on their intricately woven rugs. Each bore a distinct design, the design of that particular tribe. Bay's rug was already incorporated into the circle of Elders, a dark blue background and a silver network of stars. Only the other Elders knew exactly what that constellation meant. Ardeth Bay hadn't even told the others of his tribe, as he knew the unorthodox prophecy would only upset them. Until meeting Rick and Evelyn, he hadn't even believed in it much himself. Now, however, after seeing first-hand the power of prophecy and legend, he was willing to believe just about anything.

Ardeth Bay inclined his head at the kneeling men and took his seat among them. There was a strong scent of tea leaves in the air, and somewhere outside Bay could smell the women cooking what would be a large feast that night in honor of the Elder convocation. He wasn't feeling particularly hungry at the moment, however. His entire concern was focused around just what the Elders felt was so important that they had to call a meeting. 

He soon found out.

After the ritual formalities, the Elder to Bay's right took a deep breath and began. "We have grave news," he said without attempting to soften the issue. "The Creature is not dead."

Ardeth didn't speak, not trusting his voice at the start of these words. 

"He is not strong enough to return to the world of the living without help," the Elder went on, "though soon, we fear, he shall find that help." The man swallowed a great cup of tea, unmindful of the strength to which it had been brewed. "Reading from the Book is the only way to stop him—and it must be done carefully. The Book—the Book of Amun-Ra—has been sent to the English ones you have before worked with, the English man and his wife. While He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named cannot return to the living without interference from this world, he can still manipulate things within it. He sent the books, knowing they would be found and hoping the girl would free him once again…this time, as last, unknowingly."

"She is now smarter than that," Ardeth Bay said. 

"So had we hoped, and we do not fear her meddling again," the man responded. "It is another we fear—one hanging between this world and the next. She has the strength to turn the tide and change the world forever. It is all locked in her memory, and her memory has been cast adrift amid the ages. She is not of this world, but she lives in it. She is not human, though she once was. Since her birth she has lived half in one world and half in another—neither accepting her fully."

"I will admit," Ardeth Bay said, the words forced out of him, "I do not understand." Sometimes he wondered if the attitude of some of the other Elders was to keep his office from going to his head. It was not always easy, being the youngest on the Council of Elders.

"Nor do I," the other man said. "But I have heard the spirits talking. She is both dangerous foe and wondrous ally. I do not yet know which path she will take—but she is in England. I, therefore, send you with a select group of your warriors to find her, warn the O'Connells, and see what can be done. Just opening the Book and reading randomly will not work this time." 

Ardeth Bay inclined his head and rose from the circle. An order from the Council was an order, and he would leave today. He just hoped that today was soon enough.

*****

It took less time to return to the Hamunaptra ruins than it had to leave them, for what reason Ardeth Bay didn't pretend to know. All he was sure of was that the City of the Dead held magic he himself couldn't unlock. He was only a guard, after all, if a mystic one. The magic of the priestly city needed priests to unlock it, and Bay was no priest.

His hand-picked warriors were both young and old, fast and strong. He chose each for their different skills, knowing they might all be needed in this new journey. He didn't want to be caught off-guard this time if he could help it.

Four days after hearing the will of the Council, Ardeth Bay descended the hill of sand and rock, entering the ruins of Hamunaptra for the first time in several years. Scars of Meela's excavation wounded the silent splendor of the ruins. Sandstorms had filled in the pits, leaving only vague indentations in the sandy pathways of what were once broad avenues. More pillars had fallen, leaving only a very few standing. But the entranceway where the Americans, ten years ago, had smashed their way into the City of the Dead was still gaping wide. 

The city was silent as a tomb. Ardeth knew the seemingly-benign silence was truly waiting…for what, he could not guess. Taking his Medjai, he slowly entered the archway into the buried city. He had to find his way back to where the black Book of the Dead had fallen, to see if the visions of the Elders were truth. The smoke-visions lied occasionally, or showed deceptive truth. The Council expected him to verify their statements before embarking on the long trip to England. Whatever was happening couldn't wait…but had to. Bay did not wish to alarm his friends in England unduly. 

The smoky torches smoldered as the warriors stalked through the ancient, stale air of underground Hamunaptra. It had been a decade and more since Ardeth last passed this way, and he didn't know if he quite remembered the way to the underground sacrificial altar where the black Book had fallen. He didn't see any point in searching for the golden book—it had fallen into the pit of souls, and the black water was death to any that touched it. 

Long minutes passed in silence as they retraced the path from the underground treasure chamber to the statue of Horus and through the blasted doorway still bearing scorch marks from O'Connell's dynamite. The heavy air was thick, nearly too thick to breathe, and the sand kept swirling around their feet as if to keep them back.

This trip would have been impossible, had Meela not raised the city from the depths of the sand a year ago. Ardeth Bay still did not know how she had known what to do or how to do it, but raise it she did, and used her mysterious knowledge to find and wake Imhotep. Now there was a chance he was alive again…or very near it.

None of the warriors had registered surprise at the underground treasure chamber. Ardeth planned to take several of the smaller artifacts—jewels, gold trinkets—to pay for his passage to England if indeed he found truth to the Council's words. He had little care for gold, but the curse of Hamunaptra would have stayed his hand even if he did.

They passed down the long tunnels, each step spiraling them down toward the depths of the city. The air grew thicker and warmer, the meters of stone above them acting as a greenhouse to heat these bottom layers of the city. And then, rounding a final corner, Ardeth saw it. 

They stepped cautiously down the ancient stairway to the stone floor of the sacrificial cavern. The mirrors that were supposed to reflect the sunlight were smashed beyond recognition, evidence of the City's sinking ten years previous. The flickering torches cast strange, moving shadows on the carved walls and broken objects littering the floor. Though not prone to flights of imagination, Ardeth felt his skin prickle. He could imagine an entire army of priest-mummies, their unnatural limping walk, the way they seemed to screech and groan with no vocal chords or tongue to make the sound…

They descended to the very bottom of the stairway and picked their way across the floor. None of the Medjai said a word, blindly following Ardeth Bay the way they would follow him anywhere—the way they were sworn to follow him. They would follow to the grave if he asked it of them, and do it willingly. He was their leader, and that was the law of the Medjai.

The first words spoken inside the City came from Bay. "Spread out, but keep near a torch and don't touch anything," he said, his voice hushed. It still through haunting echoes back from the vaulted ceiling hidden in blackness above them. "We are looking for a book of pure obsidian. If you find it, _do not touch it!_" His words were forceful, and they made true echoes from the tunnels across the passageway. A faint rumble followed them. _Falling stone_, Ardeth thought, filing the information away in his brain to be recalled again later. They might have need to find an alternative route out of Hamunaptra's depths. 

For a good half an hour they scoured the large room. The only sounds were the scrape of boot against stone and the clink of metal on metal as the warriors touched their swords. All were as spooked as Ardeth, though they had not seen firsthand the mummies as he had.

When it was obvious the Book of the Dead was not still in the burial chamber, Ardeth led his men back toward the surface. Though they all seemed quite happy to be leaving the cursed city, Bay's forehead was creased with both disappointment and thought. His thoughts were black as his softly curling hair as he climbed the passageways and stumbled up the uneven stairs. His thoughts kept turning to Meela. Could she have somehow retrieved the Book from Hamunaptra when she found Imhotep? He hadn't actually descended into the melee during the rescue of Evelyn from the Museum. He simply thought the man had been told the incantations to bring Imhotep back—Meela knew much—should she not also know the sacred words to raise the dead? 

But now it seemed likely that she had recovered the two books along with Imhotep's body. And if she had the books…where would they be now? He supposed they had been sucked back into the Underworld with everything else from Ahm Shere…

Including Imhotep.

Panic then caught at his lungs, and he took a deep breath. If the undead priest ever got his hands on the two books, he could do what he liked with them. There was a good chance that they were indeed sitting in the O'Connell household…just waiting to be discovered again. 

Ardeth didn't fear that Evelyn would read from the books again. But he did experience a little wave of panic with the remembrance of the little O'Connell boy. The boy had a thirst for adventure not unlike his father's, and he was as fearless as his mother. He also didn't know what those books were capable of. What if he read…?

And this new person, the girl, that he had been warned of. What was she, exactly, with a foot in both worlds? Surely human—surely. He hoped. The only thing he could think was that he had to return to England as soon as possible, now that his fears about the Book of the Dead had been confirmed. 

Another quiet rumbling jerked him out of his thoughts. This one didn't fade away, however. It got louder. And then, just as the skeletal remains of some unlucky traveler came into view, the doorway leading out of the treasure chamber and into the final passage to the world above collapsed into a pile of rubble. The torches flickered, threatening to go out as their supply of oxygen was reduced. 

The Medjai immediately formed a ring, facing outward, swords drawn. There they took their stand for a long moment while the dust from the cave-in swirled around their black robes. The unseeing corpse of Beni grinned his horrible death grimace right in Bay's face it seemed. The torches flickered again, shining on clean white bone and empty eye sockets. Nobody said a word.


End file.
